Superman: The Man Who Would Be King
by ThatGuy42
Summary: When we are born, we are given a name. Even those doomed to never know a mother's touch or a family's love will live their lives known by the word uttered when the eyes of the world watch them. And forever will that word carry with it the weight of a thousand decisions; a thousand actions. Superman. Kent. Luthor. Doomsday. Elseworld origin story. Warning: Retcon ahead.
1. Prologue

This world is corrupted.

Rats crowd my streets, chattering and squealing for their fill, as though they have worked for anything more than the scraps dropped by society's good graces.

And here I stand, alone atop the pillar of strength, ingenuity, and determination that I have built from the tools left to me by my progenitors: paragons of social justice. But these gifts, my wisdom, their justice, have come at a cost. And I live with this price, every day, unable to expunge my debt with all of the wealth in the world. I am alone: cursed to watch the filth of society cloud and stain the world that I have built.

_The world that I have built! _

Democracy is dragging the world toward doomsday.

There was a time when I believed in charity. There was a time when I believed in selflessness. There was a time when I believed in second chances. In my youth, I believed that my wealth was more than mine. A modern-day Marx was I! Generous and transparent and full of hope that those who had never been given the same chances as I had would one day pull themselves up and we would share a place in paradise.

_What a foul, petulant, foolish child you are!_

And then I looked, and I saw that the seals of Armageddon were being torn apart, releasing their curses upon what would have (_what should have!_) been the bastions of justice and truth for our world, and the scroll of my innocence was then sour to my tongue.

As I bled the good graces of my family out from my empire and into the rabble, I had hoped that they would clothe themselves in righteousness to match my own. But then, they burned my generosity at their stakes of incompetence, and had the slithering gall to come begging me for more. And when I reached out to crush them beneath my heel, I found them shielded by bureaucrats of the great Nanny State of America, who lashed out at me, trying to bleed me of all my worth under the guise of justice. Alone and defeated, I was forced to come limping back to the haven of my birth with naught but shame to show for my "good deeds."

_The filthy sophomoric drudge of a dreamer. WHAT IS YOUR NAME?_

My name. I know my name.

My name is Victory, and my name is Justice.

_I _rebuilt from the ruins of my own idealism. _I _restored my family's honor with my own two hands. _I _have become a titan of industry, of strength, of will. And it is I alone who can see the truth of this world.

Generosity is a curse. Democracy is a lie. God shuffles his feet pitifully in the presence of the true master of the world. There is only one path to truth, justice, and the American way: power.

I have the power.

I am Lex Luthor. And this world is mine.


	2. Chapter 1

**April 8****th****, four years ago…**

Clark hastily pushed himself up from the floor over and over, as though he might feel something, anything, if he did it enough. Nine-hundred and eighty-seven pushups later, however, and his muscles would not stop. He would not weigh himself: afraid of what the scales might tell him. Three-hundred? Four-hundred? Five-hundred pounds? It all meant the same thing.

"_You're not like the rest of us, Clark." _

Much as he tried, a haggard and lonely Clark Kent could not escape the truth that he had lived with all of his life. He was a freak of nature, but one that he could not put a name to. As a child, he had entertained the fantasy that, perhaps, he was just like Andre the Giant: big, strong, and immovable; weighed down heavily by social stigmas that would someday be lifted, as the world became a nicer place.

But then, Andre the Giant died; a victim of his own spectacle. And Clark, much as he tried not to, envied him. The liar in Clark told him that is was because of the life he had, because everyone loved Andre the Giant. His condition had brought him the love and admiration of millions rather than kept it from him. But, Clark knew himself better than this, and he forced himself to confront the truth: that he envied the death of The Giant, who no longer had to live with the burden of tiptoeing around his own bedroom, afraid to sit down too hard and splinter his own bed. Never having to stare down awkwardly at the floor when conversations turned to how hard it must be to find clothes that fit. Did The Giant's bones ache constantly like Clark's? Did the people who flocked to Andre love him as a man, or as a giant?

A dead man never had to ponder these sorts of questions.

1, 079 pushups. Nothing.

His homework sat sloppily at the living room table, as though it would be done, at some point. But, these days, if he brought his homework out, it was more for show than anything else: as much for himself as for Ma. He needed to feel normal, as though answering math equations would somehow settle the thousand thoughts racing in his mind at any given time. It wasn't that he couldn't understand the concept of what he was seeing, but, so often, it felt as though every individual thing that he was seeing carried with it a thousand foreign ideas of its own. He recalled studying Abraham Maslow, one day, last semester.

_Abraham Maslow. Humanism. April 1__st__, 1908 to June 8__th__, 1970. Just missed his birthday. Should celebrate. Should I celebrate? Application of birthdate anniversary celebrations to impersonal historical figure: superfluous. Hierarchy of needs: five-tiered analysis of self-satisfaction, beginning with primal and narrowing into subjective determinations of self-worth. Generally presented using a pyramid or equilateral triangle as a rudimentary teaching aid. Theory solid as generalization; lacking in case-by-case analytical applications. 60 degrees, 60 degrees, 60 degrees. Application of Napoleon Theorem in mathematics: limited. Historical validity of "Napoleon Theorem" moniker: skewed. _

1, 153. He pushed harder. He pushed faster.

The world around him would not stop humming. It had not stopped humming since he was 15, when he had woken in a panic at the noise in his ears. The doctor said it was tinnitus, which, to his credit, made as much sense as anything else.

"_Now, you say 'humming…' Do you maybe mean more like a 'ringing' noise?" _

Clark had wanted to tell Doctor Welker the truth. His ears weren't ringing. They were humming: a horrible, persistent humming of a thousand pitches and wavelengths.

His parents had raised him to tell the truth from the earliest days of memory. But then, every truth that they spoke was soon followed a lie or two, usually about Clark. A fib here about the tractor incident. A white lie there about how fast he had run the 40-yard-dash. And, that day, in Doctor Welker's office, Clark followed Pa's eyes in fear, pleading silently for an answer. He hated his father ever so slightly, in times like this; thrust into these all-too-familiar ethical dilemmas, afraid to lie, even if Pa approved of it.

"_What do you want me to do, Dad?! Do you want me to be this good Christian All-American all the time, or just when it helps you out?"_

1, 310. Nothing.

Nothing. Nothing made sense, anymore. He felt nothing but fear and anger and confusion. Everywhere he turned, he found only half-truths and indirect answers.

"_Your mind racing could be a number of things. You could just be stressed, or you may have an attention disorder. I'd like to run a few tests…"_

"_Clark's size and weight are abnormal, yes, but not altogether unheard of. Why, I've heard of many children of Pacific Islander descent who have to use special scales at their pediatrician's office because they are so big, when, really, they are perfectly healthy. And Clark is perfectly healthy. Now, about that layer of cells just under his skin. I'd like to run some tests on those…"_

"_Your memory is fine, Clark. Actually, it's fantastic. I'd certainly love to see everything once and remember it without trying! Here, I'll show you. Let's do a few tests…" _

1,516.

"_Why does everyone feel so far away from me, Dad?" _

1,550.

Clark finally slumped to a halt to breathe. He couldn't tell whether it was his mind or his heart racing, but deep breaths felt like a natural course of action. Sighing, he shuffled over to the couch and uncoiled gently into it, taking care not to break this one, like last time.

Outside, the stars looked down on him through his window with some silent and friendly understanding; each the span of ten lifetimes away even from one another, and yet, somehow, weaving a story together through time and space. He yearned for a story of his own, for a day when his name could be spoken through truth and not the terrified, mumbling lies that defined him. He wanted to feel something more than fear and doubt, something other than the agonizing grinding under his skin and the thousand aches and pains he had long hoped would fade with age. He wanted to believe that there was a place out there where people like Andre Roussimoff were seen as more than just giants.

Above all, Clark wanted to feel human.

**Tritta'Gar Testing Facility, Nimeo Etwa'Gora Gulf, Shan-Gar, Krypton**

**Kryptonian Dragon Cycle, Year 892; Earth year: c. 422 B.C.E.**

Drez'Nan surveyed his work cautiously, a gun firmly in hand. He had no idea what, if anything, he expected the weapon to achieve, but, when staring into the eyes of death, some subconscious resistance was to be expected.

For, truly, it was into Death's eyes that he stared, on this day.

The specimen did not see him. It did not breathe. It did not shudder. It merely waited, as it had waited for a cold and fearless lifetime, and then some. Drez tried to wear a mask of courage and determination, for the sake of his team. They revered him, and would follow him, however fearfully, into any horror that his work may dictate. And on this day, his work had delivered him mercilessly to face the horror that he had been pursuing for the breadth of his discerning adult life.

On Drez'Nan's shoulders sat the burden of Hell, and in his hands, he held the key to its gates. Long had he hoped, with the covetous ambition only possessed by men with transcendent intellect, that this day would come, never thinking too deeply about what it might really be like. Somewhere inside of him, he knew that, if he had stopped to consider the consequences of this day, he would have long ago abandoned his search. But time waits for no man, and fortune favors the bold. Had he turned away from this so many years ago, he would have doomed himself to a life of mediocrity; of servitude. Of shame befitting the ruinous actions of his foolish father and brothers. And he forever spurned their disgrace in his heart: a bitter and angry man driven forward in spite. Now that he possessed the power to tower over the pitiful failures of his family for all time to come, however, he was no longer sure if he wanted it, or, indeed, if any of it even mattered.

Now, standing at the gates of Hell, Drez'Nan was afraid.

He looked to his team, who stared helplessly at him: mere children and loyal dogs in his shadow. He looked to his specimen, which stared through him and into infinity. He stared at his hands, as though his choices might manifest in his clutches and cry out an easy answer. After an eternity, he finally turned to his terminal and gave his command.


	3. Chapter 2

When I was a boy, I was very fat: a decadent (and misguided) byproduct of my station.

My mother, God rest her noble soul, loved me very much, if my memory serves me correctly. My father, I suppose, felt certain feelings for me, though he was a man of few words and little presence. Perhaps he did love me, and perhaps he did love my mother, once, though my experience with him was (and remains) limited. I was six when cancer claimed my mother, and, even before then, my father had little time for either of us. I suppose I cannot fault him too terribly, as the time he failed to put in with me, he put into the company, and I have reaped those benefits, in the long-term.

His indifference, too, left my mother and me with a great deal of time together, and, as best as I can recall, these times account for the most pleasant moments of my life not to be attached to work. My father had, evidently, promised her that she would never have to work again, and I had very few responsibilities outside of learning to tie my shoes. And so, I spent most of my early years attended to by assistants, accompanying my mother on shopping trips and "business" lunches and, if I promised to be a good boy, I could expect a hearty treat at the end of the day. Most psychiatrists or experienced parents might say that this behavior fostered in me the idea that I could have whatever I wanted without having to work for it, and perhaps it did. But, even today, I have trouble resenting her. She was innocent to a fault, my mother: a computer programmer by trade who spent most of her life shadowing her father at WayneTech, she had no time and, indeed, no affinity for friendships. In many ways, I was the only friend my mother ever had.

To this day, she was the only friend _I _have ever had.

After my mother passed away, what tenderness my father possessed died with her. He would never say it to me directly (He rarely said anything to me, directly or otherwise, from that point on), but I know he blamed her death on me. To my end, I spent much of my childhood blaming him for… everything else. But, much though I was consumed with sorrow and confusion at my mother's passing, at the age of six, I was consumed more immediately by confusion as to why my father would not buy me ice cream every day. After a week or so, bereft of trips to town and their heaps of toys and treats, I voiced my sincere displeasure to my father.

It was the first time that I remember feeling fear.

**February 26****th****, three years ago…**

Clark was always one to try and be pragmatic. A lifetime of hiding and second-guessing had taught him _that_ much, at any rate. But, while he had only been in Metropolis for a month, he couldn't shake the feeling that everything was going to work out, here. Yes, it was far more cramped than Smallville. Yes, people seemed generally much grumpier. And yes, it cost a considerable amount more to live in even his small apartment than he had hoped. But, ever since Clark had stepped off the bus into Metropolis, he felt as though he was, somehow, in the right place (And not entirely because freaks and weirdoes were more commonplace on big city streets than in small-town Kansas). Life moved at the frenetic pace of his own mind, and Clark could always find something to distract himself from the more frustrating of his thoughts and feelings. Every day, there were new things to see and new things to learn, and Clark faced every new day prepared to experience them.

Even if he was still unsure of what he wanted out of his life, Clark knew that, whatever it was, he would find it here.

These days, Clark found it much easier to attend school. There was more to think about at Metropolis U than at Pratt College, in Kansas. In particular, he had found an especial fondness for keeping track of shuttle bus routines. While he had driven all of his things here in Pa's old pickup, Clark took particular satisfaction in keeping track of both his class times and the routes of the shuttles that would get him to and from his apartment. The less time his mind had to wander, the easier things became for him, and, in time, he found himself hearing regular comments about "that huge guy" who sat bolt-upright on the bus, a leather briefcase hugged tight to his chest, beaming like a moron. He didn't mind. Even these backhanded remarks seemed to tell him that he was doing something right, for a change.

Today, as he got off the bus to hike to Professor Hamilton's class, he stopped for a moment to drink in his newfound sense of satisfaction. The world was just beginning its descent into spring, and the faint scents of snowfall were giving way to the sweet, warm smells of blooming plants and clear sunlight. The world still hummed around him, but now, he could pick out other sounds. The wasp's nest that was beginning to come to life outside of Winston Hall. The chugging of bus and car engines on the streets, nearby. The roar of industry pulsing throughout the city. Everything seemed to be falling into place, anymore. It made him want to…

"Get off the bus, asshole," someone grumbled behind him. It was easy to get lost in thought, in times like this. So lost, in fact, that all 450 pounds of one's unnaturally large frame might prevent everyone behind him from going anywhere, had one been so uninclined to move out of the way. Snapped back to reality, Clark huddled down against his briefcase, half embarrassed, half mischievous, and hurried off to class.

* * *

Clark had a particular fondness for Professor Hamilton. He was a short man with a thick beard and a tweed jacket always thrown on half-sarcastically over some old rock concert t-shirt or another. He spoke slowly and loudly and could never get through more than a few sentences without a moment of internal reflection to think very carefully about what he was going to say next. And, while Clark was fairly certain that years of loud music and debauchery had produced the Emil Hamilton of today, he could almost see himself becoming that old man, with age: a droopy-eyed, pleasant old fellow without a care in the world, save the frequent misplacement of his own keys.

"As a quick note before we leave," Hamilton sighed, relieved to have finished another lecture, "I want to make a quick change to the syllabus schedule. So, for those of you who still have your syllabus, please take it out. For those of you who don't… Well… You know… Shame on you." There was a general chuckle about the lecture hall. With a barely-contained smirk of satisfaction, Clark removed his syllabus from the front of his immaculately-kept binder and hunkered down.

"I'm a little bit disturbed by our collective test scores, lately. And, if your first essays are any indication, there are very few of you who seem to be picking up what I'm laying down. Specifically, I take sincere offense at those of you who elected to write your papers on how Middle Easterners have tense relationships with the West because… And, I'm quoting here…" Hamilton pulled out a packet of paper and adjusted his glasses. "…'The Middle East is a hotbed of terrorist activity that began in the Middle Ages as crusades against European forces in Jerusalem, and now includes efforts to eliminate all other people in the world, including Europeans, Americans, and…'" Hamilton chuckled here and pinched the bridge of his nose, "'Asians.'"

There were a few snickers at this, though it was clear that the anonymously-sampled victim was only one of a substantial few in the hall who shared such a view.

"Apparently," Hamilton continued, "The Middle East is no longer also included when discussing Asian cultures." He sighed, dropped the paper, and paced. "Look, folks, I'm a man of the world. My best days are well enough behind me, and more than a few of those days are a haze of illicit drug use and public love-making. I'm not the brightest man alive, and I've made many of the same mistakes you will." His tone dropped. "But when I assign an essay on 'tension between the Middle East and America,' I'm not _actually _saying, 'tell me how much you hate the god-damned Arabs.'"

There were a few gruff murmurs. From the center of the hall, a thickly-built man in a back-facing ball cap chimed in. "Then why do they hate us?"

Hamilton smirked. "Why do they hate you? Why, oh why would the amorphous and ambiguous 'they' hate you and your broad-sweeping generalizations and your half-hearted attempts to learn about something else besides how drunken one can get before passing out? I just can't imagine."

Actual laughter spread throughout the hall. The meathead's Agent Orange of entitlement began to get heated. "Yeah, well, you tell that to my buddies in Iraq who have to scoop their friends' brains up in a cup every day."

Hamilton sighed, a wry smile ever-present on his face. "Did you get that line from the same website that you cut and pasted your paper from, Mr. Franks, or do those buddies of yours actually exist?"

Meathead scoffed and began to shake his head, as though he were liable to "lose it" on Professor Hamilton if he kept this conversation up any longer. He returned to his meaningless series of frat-boy chortling with his cohorts. Hamilton gestured out toward the windows of the hall.

"For those of you who can, I want you to take a look out of those windows. What do you see?" There was no answer.

"There's some grass out there. Some trees. The rest of the campus. Beyond that? Eh. There's the city. Beyond that? I-95 and some other roads. After we get past all of that, though, what you can see, or what you can imagine you might see starts to break down. For most of you, there's nothing beyond this city until you get home. To New York, to California, to Kansas, to wherever you come from. Between here and there, you don't stop to think about the people that live in those houses off the highway. Why would you? It doesn't mean much to you, provided you don't stop at a convenience store to get gas and pothead snacks." Chuckles all around.

"My job is not to tell you how to feel about those people. My job is to tell you that those people are there. My job is to show you that the space between you and somewhere you've never been isn't empty. In that space, there are people. Millions and millions of people with different thoughts. Different ideas. Different dreams. There is a world out there full of people, and when the time comes that you meet any one or one-thousand of those people, you'll know that my job was to tell you how, and more importantly, why, they may react to your presence." He smirked. "Or, in Mr. Franks' case, why they probably hate you." The classroom was filled with actual laughter at this as people realized more and more that Franks, for all of his muscle, was not much of a threat to Hamilton.

"So," he finished. "Because this is my job, you're all going to try this assignment again. You can pick up your papers on your way out the door and take them to the Islamic Cultural Center on Keystone Avenue. I want them back a week from today, and I want them to tell me what you learned on your field trip. It'll be like we're in first grade all over again. "

The laughter had faded into groans and mindless shuffling. Clark was unconcerned. He had seen his grades online, the day before, and knew there was not much that he would have to change. Instead, his mind was still focused on Professor Hamilton's words, and, in particular, how they related to the black iron box that he kept on his desk, at home.

"…_The space between you and somewhere you've never been isn't empty." _

Maybe… Just maybe.

**The following is a transcript from the video log of Dr. William Kane. The date of the recording is encrypted for security purposes. **

**Log #1**

_Kane: My name is Dr. William Kane, chief bio-engineer of Luthor Engineering and Development, Applied Chemical Technologies department. I am recording this video log to track the progress of File #11241974, codename: Project Daybreak. _

_(Kane adjusts glasses; takes sip of water)_

_Kane: I have been forced to record this log from my home and directly to a portable jump drive while disconnected from the internet because my… employer, for all of his vast intelligence and ingenuity, has deemed my lab notes as property of Luthor Engineering, and that removal from the ACT laboratories presents a severe risk of theft by a rival company. My team and I are not even allowed to log our own notes. Mr. Luthor has informed us that he will personally be logging and reviewing the data nightly. Please understand that I have a great deal of respect for my employer. He truly is a good man. But I'm afraid he may be… Well… Perhaps it is best not to say. _

_(Kane adjusts collar)_

_Kane: I feel that there must be some record of my examinations outside of those contained in Mr. Luthor's databases because… Um… If I am being honest… I am afraid. Subject Daybreak appears to be docile and possessing the best of human interests in mind, but I suspect that, like the rest of us, it may only take a single bad day to cause Daybreak to become hostile. God help me, but he may very well live to see that one bad day during his stay at Luthor Engineering. _

_(Kane wipes brow)_

_Kane: It is wrong to keep Daybreak confined and comatose in the laboratory. He is a thinking, feeling, _speaking_ organism. Conversely, the world needs to know what he is capable of and, if something terrible should happen, how to fight against him. I can only hope that, when we are done with him, he will be allowed to leave, and will understand why we are doing what we are doing. If you…_

_(Kane sighs)_

_Kane: If you are viewing this, then it means that one of two things has happened: One, Mr. Luthor has lost our data and needs to review what I may be able to provide within these logs. Or two, I have been found out, and this data provides the only opportunity for the general public to know what has transpired. Either way, I sincerely hope that this will be enough. I am unable to smuggle any information out of the laboratory, even on a common napkin. They search us before we leave, for the night. And so, I shall have to commit all of my progress to memory and recount it as best as I can before the evening is over. It will be a challenge. But, my mother did always say that I was a bright child. I sincerely hope that I live up to her expectations. _

_(Unidentified noise outside Kane's apartment. Kane looks outside window)_

_Kane: Well… at any rate… I just wanted you to know what you are dealing with, here. My notes begin in Log # 2. _

_(End recording)_


End file.
